Mercy or Murder?
by Raablyn
Summary: When Drizzt looks upon Ellifain's dead body as she is buried, he asks himself if killing her that night so long ago would have been murder, or mercy? CAUTION: ANGST!


_Disclaimer: I don't own anything._

_The iltalics are from the book Homeland, altered into first person narrative. Not mine, RA Salvatores. _

_This was written at 10:21 on a Friday night, after reading this paticular section over again. _

_Drizzt is staring at Ellifain as she is buried, and he asks himself whether it was mercy or murder, that night so long ago._

Mercy or Murder?

I stare at the female elf being lowered into the cold ground. I see her body covered by cold clay, hear the dull _slap_ of a shovel. I see this, and it disappears in a blur of tears. Hot tears, a striking contrast to the cold, cold ground. And then I am not seeing Ellifain, slain by my own hand. I look into the past, at what had happened, at the death of a hope, a joy, and ultimately, a life.

_One terrified female, dodging this way and that, came before me. I dipped the tips ofmy weapons to the earth, searching for some way to give a measure of comfort._

_The female then jerked straight as a sword dove into her back, its tip thrusting right throug her slender form.I watched, mesmerizaed and horrified, as the drow warrior behind her grasped the weapong hilt in both hands and twisted it savagely. The female elf looked straight at me in the last fleeting seconds of her life, her eyes crying for mercy. Her voice was no more than a sickening gurgle of blood._

_His face the exultation of ecstacy, the drow warrior tore his sword free and sliced it across, taking the head from the elven female's shoulders._

_"Vengence!" he cried to me, his face contorted in furious glee, his eyes burning with a light that shone demonic to mystunned form. The warrior hacked at the lifeless body one more time, then spun away in search of another kill._

_Only a moment later, another elf, this one a young girl, broke free of the massacre and rushed in my direction, screaming a single word over and over. Her cry was in the tongue of the surface elves, a dialect foreign to me, but when I looked upon her fair face streaked with tears,I understood what she was saying. Her eyes wereon the mutilated corpse at his feet; her anguish outweighed even the terror of her own impending doom. She could only be crying, "Mother!"_

What had Ellifain seen, that horrible night? The slaughter of her kin, her family, her friends. Her mother's multilated and bloody corpse, and, out of the corner of her eyes, her mother's corpse lying at my own feet, her white skin streaked with red, her clothes sticky and wet, her raven hair dark red with the still-warm blood. What had Ellifain seen, her eyes locked upon her slain mother lying at my feet? Not my horrified expression; not my unbloodied blades; not even the sights surrounding her and me. Just her mother, her undoubtedly beloved mother, lying slashed and bloody and ultimately dead at my own feet.

_Rage, horror, anguish, and a dozen other emotions racked me at that horrible moment. I wanted to escape my feelings, to lose myself in the blind frenzy of my kin and accept the ugle reality. How easy it would have been to throw away the concience that pained me so._

And yet, if I had done just that, I would never been able to live with what I had done.

_The elven child rushed p before me but hardly saw me, her gaze locked upon her dead mother, the back of the child's neck open to a single, clean blow. I raised my scimitar, unable to distinguish between mercy and murder._

The true Ellifain died that terrible night, died as surely as if her death had come at that moment. What might I have spared her by ending her life at that moment, that horrible moment? Could I have spared her the anguish and sorrow that cannot be measured, the anguish and sorrow that undoubtedly had not diminished over all these years? Could I have spared her the rage, the hatred, the thirst for revenge, and, ultimately, the insanity that eventually claimed her soul and twisted her beautiful face? Could I have spared the spark of innocence and joy that had shined so clearly in her beautiful eyes, the eyes that glowed as a mirror to my soul?

_"Yes, my brother!" Dinin cried out to me, a call that cut through my comrades screams and whoops and echoed in my ears like an accusation . . . _

_"Today you know the glory it is to be adrow!" Dinin cried, and punched a victorious fist into the air. "Today we appease the Spider Queen!"_

_I almost did it. In my unfocused outrage, I almost became as my kin. I almost stole the life from the beautiful child's sparkling eyes._

Would that have been murder? Or would that have been mercy?

_At the last moment, she looked up at me, her eyes shining as a dark mirror into my blackening heart. In that reflection, I found myself._

I did. I found the core of strength within me, the core of strength that acted as cool water, cool tears that melted away the raging fires blackening my heart.

I saved Ellifain inbody by pulling her small form to the ground, her terrified screamechoing in my ears, and hidher beneath her dead mother.

But what was lost, what did Ellifain lose, buried beneath her dead mother? Feeling the cold weight of death that had once been vital and loving life. Feeling the cold tingle as dead fingers brushed her cheek, feeling the warm stickiness as hot blood rolled down her back, drenching her, slashing her, digging a poisened, blood-stained knife into her soul.

What did she lose, that I might have saved by killing her as mercifully as possible, with one swift strike to the back of the neck?

Ellifain lost her innocence that night. She lost not only her kin, but her joy, her untainted smile, the sparkle in her eyes. Her dreams, slashed by a Lolth-blessed sword, slashed right in half and tossed to the seas of sorrow and fury.

Could I have saved that?

_Would _I have saved that?

If I could go back to that night, go back to that moment, that horrible moment, when I could have ended her life, quickly and cleanly, would I have swung my blade and aimed for the throat? Would I have killed her, that I might spare her the sorrow, the grief, the rage, the hate, the insanity of her future?

No: if I could go back, I would not do that. How could I? By doing so, I would have stolen the sparkle from Ellifain's beautiful eyes as surely as did the terror of that night.

And I would have condemmed myself.

If I had done that, if I had killed Ellifain, I would never be able to forgive myself. When Zak accused me of the murder of an innocent child, how could I have screamed in denial if it were true? How could I look Zaknafein in the eye and hear, in my mind, _did you enjoy the dying child's screams?_

How could my principals have survived that? They would have been destroyed, washed away by a sea of blood. And I could have never regained them. How could I have left Menzoberranzan, after that? How could I have come to the surface and looked that surface elf, Kellindil, in the eye? How could I, if I did manage to flee the hell that is Menzoberranzan, how could I look into Catti-Brie's sparkling eyes, so much akin to Ellifain's?

How could I have lived with myself?

Was there a difference, that night? A difference between the murder of an innocent child and the mercy granted to save a soul?

When I arched my blade harmlessly over her, did I condem Ellifain to a life of hate? Did I grab her soul and twisted it, darkening it with rage and sorrow? Did I replace the innocent, joyful sparkle of life in her beautiful eyes with the intensity of hateful insanity, turning her beautiful face ugly?

Did I save my soul, only to damn hers?

Or would slaying Ellifain that night be murder? Could I have saved her soul, the underlaying joy of her spirit, even in the surreal face of death, only to condemn my own soul? Would slashing the child's throat that night be heartless, cruel murder, dictated by rage?

It would be.

I know this, in my mind. But my heart is torn by the sharp edges of my own scimitars.

Staring down at the dead elf's body, the body that had once belonged to a joyful child, I cannot surpress the tears. I would sacrifice my soul to save her own. But would slaying Ellifain that night truly save her?

Does it matter? She is dead, and dead at the tip of my scimitar. My hands are stained with her blood.

Her empty eyes, eyes that once shone with the sparkle of love and joy, and innocence, are empty. Empty. They mock my principals: they slash at my soul and threaten to topple my principals, threaten to throw them to the red tide of raging blood.

Because, either way, I still killed her. I still killed Ellifain. That child still died.

Or was it her? Did Ellifain, the true Ellifain, die that day, along with her mother and kin? Was the being I stole her life from a shadow of the true Ellifain, a twisted and hating and insane version?

A version that was never ment to be?

I believe so.

Guilt fills me; this was the fault of my kin, and myself. If we had not descended upon Ellifain's innocent kin that night, this would not have ended like this. Ellifain was meant to be a caring and kind and joyful being: the terrible, bloody massacre that night drove her from that path and onto another.

She was full of sorrow and grief at the deaths of her kin, lying there beneath her mother, shaking with fear and sobs. The anger, the rage, that followed were perfectly understandably: _why? _Why did this happen? Why was my mother killed? Why did they kill her? Why?

No answer came. And the rage had born hate. Hate for the drow, the murderers that had stolen her joy, her kin, her innocence, her dreams, her _life_ from her. She existed, in hate and traumatized grief and rage, thirsting to stike back ather mother's killers. At her killers.

She could not strike at the drow that remained beneath thesurface.

So she struck at me.

Was it truly mercy, saving herlife that night? Or was it murder, the murder of her soul, not her body. The death of her spirit.

She is dead now: blind vengence cost her her life.

She was trapped. Trapped in a prison of grief and fury andhatred and vengence. She could not escape until shehad seen the light fly from my eyes as the spirit flied from my body.

Or until Catti-Brie watched the spirit fly from hers.

Vengence. There was no cause for the deathes of her kin. Her mother. Her self. She had to stike back.

Was it mercy or murder, that night so long ago yet so painfully clear to me?

The tears stream down my face, and I do not believe I can know. Not here. Not now. Not with the blood of poor Ellifain staining still my hands.

Maybe I will never truly know.

* * *

_I started crying when I wrote this . . . _

_Did you like it? Did I get more or less to the mark? Am I completely inept at this?_

_Please review. I want to know what you think of this._

_Danke._


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